


Soul-Eating Emotion

by rosewiththorns



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Birthday Cake, Brithday, Detroit Red Wings, Discipline, Forgiveness, Friendship, Gen, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mouthing Off, References to Spanking, Shame, mentoring, surprise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 11:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6115068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewiththorns/pseuds/rosewiththorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hank has a surprise for Steve. Set during Hank's rookie year. Written per reader request.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soul-Eating Emotion

“Shame is a soul-eating emotion.”—Carl Jung

Soul-Eating Emotion

Hank’s eyes felt heavy as the cream with which he had frosted the Jordgubbstart he had made in honor of Steve’s birthday, and it was a struggle to keep them open as he garnished the traditional Swedish birthday cake with fresh strawberry halves. It was seven in the morning, and when he had begun baking the cake last night, he hadn’t envisioned that it would take so long to make the two yellow cakes and the almond cream filling called francipank according to his mother’s secret family recipe, but it had mainly because Hank was an inexperienced—borderline inept—cook who was out of his element whenever he was required to do more than crack an egg. 

Originally, Hank had figured that he would use Betty Crocker’s yellow cake mix to simplify the process of baking a Jordgubbstart, but after he had gotten into a horrible argument with Steve the day before that had culminated in him taking an impromptu trip over Steve’s knee for a rapid, burning lesson in politeness, he had been so guilt-stricken about potentially ruining Steve’s birthday even worse than the lingering memory of their playoff exit by the Flames that he had promised himself that he would make it up to Steve with a perfect birthday cake even if it took him all night to make, which it had…

Arranging the last strawberry half over the heavy cream icing, Hank frowned down at his culinary creation. It definitely didn’t look as elegant as it did when his mother made it, and, now that he had done it, Hank feared that it might have been stupid to bake Steve a Swedish birthday cake. After all, Steve wasn’t Swedish, so why would he want a Swedish birthday cake? 

Berating himself for putting in so much time and effort into a dessert Steve probably wouldn’t like, Hank, knees trembling so hard it was difficult to climb the staircase, went up to Steve’s bedroom, opened the door as softly as possible on its hinges, and said in a shaky voice—half-hoping that Steve would not hear and awaken—“Stevie?” 

Contrary to Hank’s internal desire, Steve jolted upright as though roused by an alarm clock. Wiping sleep from his eyes, Steve asked in a tone still thick with dreams, “What’s up, Hank?” 

“Please come down to the kitchen, Stevie,” whispered Hank so quietly that he thought that Steve might not hear, but apparently he did, for he rolled out of bed and slipped into a pair of wooly moccasins. 

“Is something wrong?” Steve’s forehead furrowed as he wrapped himself into a red tartan bathrobe. 

“Just come downstairs please.” Hank shifted from foot to foot, unable to be still when he was tempted to flee the room and hide his face in his pillow forever. 

“All right.” Clearly bemused and concerned by Hank’s peculiar behavior, Steve patted Hank’s tense shoulder. “Lead on.” 

Feeling as if his legs had been replaced with splintered pencils, Hank made the journey back downstairs to the kitchen with Steve at his heels like a protective sentry. When they reached their destination, Hank jerked a hand at the treat he had baked, mumbling as he longed to evaporate into the atmosphere, “I baked you a cake for your birthday. I know it’s dumb since it probably came out awful and you most likely wanted one from a bakery instead—“ 

“It’s not dumb, and I don’t want one from a bakery instead.” Steve grasped Hank’s shoulder and stared deep into Hank’s watery eyes with a gaze that was kind yet unwavering. “Thank you for baking a cake for me, Z.” 

“You aren’t—“ Hank’s breath hitched in his throat—“mad at me then?” 

“Mad at you for making a cake?” Steve’s palm drifted upward to squeeze the nape of Hank’s neck. “Don’t be ridiculous. This isn’t the French Revolution. I’m not going to get mad about cake.” 

“That’s not what I meant.” Nibbling on his lip, Hank shot Steve a sidelong glance, hoping that he wouldn’t have to admit aloud how guilty he still felt about mouthing off to Steve. 

“What did you mean?” Steve arched an eyebrow, and something inside Hank shattered at that simple question and expression. 

“I mean you aren’t still mad at me for getting mouthy with you, are you?” The words tumbled out of Hank as tears trickled down his cheeks. 

“Oh, Hank, of course not!” Steve spun Hank around and pressed him against his chest in a warm hug, so that Hank’s tears dampened Steve’s tartan bathrobe, which felt scratchy but somehow soothing against Hank’s face. “You got a bit saucy with me and being knocked out of the playoffs didn’t improve either of our tempers, but you accepted your discipline and you’re absolutely forgiven.” 

“I just feel so guilty.” Hank’s entire frame shook with sobs. 

“You shouldn’t.” Steve combed his fingers through Hank’s hair. “What you did was wrong but you received your punishment and once you’ve paid the price for your bad behavior, there’s no need for you to feel guilty anymore, kid.” 

Silence settled between them for a moment as Steve continued to stroke Hank’s hair, and then he murmured against Hank’s ear, “Do you know why I spank you?” 

“To discipline me,” recited Hank dutifully between sniffles, mopping at his eyes with his pajama sleeve. “To correct my bad behavior. To teach me a lesson.” 

“That’s why I punish you in general.” Steve’s fingers traced the shells of Hank’s ears. “There is a reason why the specific method of discipline that I choose to impose on you is spanking. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, spanking leaves a very strong, searing impression in a short amount of time, yet it causes no lasting damage and the pain fades within an hour at most. The pain is meant to teach a lesson and show my disapproval for intolerable conduct, but it’s also intended to assure the recipient of the spanking that he has been adequately punished for his transgression and shouldn’t harbor any more guilt over his crime. A spanking is likewise designed to be over relatively fast so the discipline is done and the person who was punished can move on with his life without persistent feelings of guilt or worry about a long-lasting consequence. In other words, a spanking hurts because it’s meant to purge you of your guilt, not just teach you a lesson. Understand?” 

“I think so.” Hank nodded after contemplating this revelation. 

“Good.” Chuckling, Steve ruffled Hank’s hair. “You can remember that for when your hands are full with your own rookie.” 

“When I have a rookie, would I have to spank him?” Hank tilted his chin up to stare at Steve, his stomach churning as he wondered whether he would actually be able to inflict that strict, smarting discipline on a rookie. 

“No.” Steve cupped Hank’s chin between his palms. “Every mentor is unique, as is each rookie. The discipline that works for one mentor or one rookie may not be so effective for another. It will be completely your decision to spank or not when you have your own rookie to look after, Hank.” 

“Good to hear.” Hank sighed his relief. “I’m not sure I could do it, you know. I mean, I guess spankings have helped me learn, but they hurt like hell.” 

“You have a long time to make up your mind about that.” Steve clapped Hank’s shoulder before crossing over to the counter, where he pulled a knife out of a drawer and sliced two pieces of cake, depositing each of these on a porcelain plate. “Meanwhile, let’s have some of this delicious cake you baked, scamp.”


End file.
